


First Steps

by PunsBulletsAndPointyThings



Series: The Lighter Path [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, Fluff, GFY, Gen, Miscommunication, TLP au, the Jinn padawans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/pseuds/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We take a step back, to how it all began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Title; How Feemor Saved the Galaxy
> 
> Musical accompaniment for this song is Peter Hollen's cover of You'll Be In My Heart.
> 
> Special thanks to The-Dragongirl and LaceFedora for the cheering, inspiration, and for listening to me babble about this a lot.
> 
> Backstory 1/3 - Feemor

**[64 BBY]**  
  
It had all happened so suddenly; neither Feemor nor Master Celinar had sensed the attack coming until it was too late. One second, they had been walking towards their ship, a successful mission all but completed; Feemor had allowed his thoughts to stray towards a hot bath and his bed back at the temple, and in the next moment, chaos had erupted. The attack had come out of nowhere, catching both Master and Padawan off guard.  
  
It was the Will of the Force; that was what Master Yoda had said, the old master’s voice soft with loss as they all stood around the Bith woman’s pyre. It was the first time Feemor had allowed himself to wonder if perhaps the Force had been wrong. What was the point in Master Celinar’s death?  
  
Shaking his head, the young man pulled himself from his meditation. This was not helping. With a sigh, Feemor picked himself up off the floor, stretching away the stiffness that had gathered in his limbs after too long in one position. Wallowing in self-pity and grief was not the Jedi way, nor would it bring his first master back.  
  
A soft knock on sounded and Qui-Gon peered into the room. “Feemor?”  
  
“Yes, Qui-…er, Master Qui-Gon?”  
  
Qui-Gon wrinkled his nose, and Feemor found he agreed.  
  
“It’s still odd, hearing you call me that.” Stepping fully into the room, Qui-Gon hovered by the door, hands folded behind his back.  
  
“I know. One would think we would have adjusted, after a year.” Feemor smiled absently, picking up his robe from his bed and shrugging it on. “But I suppose we will both get used to it eventually, hmm?”  
  
“I suppose we will.” As Feemor drew near, Qui-Gon reached out, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. “Feemor, I know I can’t replace Master Celinar, but-“  
  
“Qui-Gon,” Feemor interrupted, stemming the flow of words, “We’ve been over this. It’s fine. If I must have a new master, I’m glad it’s you.” He smiled. “Besides, this is good practice for you. From what I’ve heard, padawans usually come to you small. And squishy. This way, you get some practice with the non-breakable model first.”  
  
Qui-Gon grimaced, but some of the tension in the knight’s face a vanished, “Did you honestly just say padawans are squishy?”  
  
Feemor grinned, ducking out from under his hand and continuing out into the main room and towards the door. “Come on, _Master_. I don’t want to be late. I know you have old bones, but we do need to go.”  
  
Qui-Gon made a face but followed anyway. “You know, I’m pretty sure padawans are supposed to respect their masters.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up!”

* * *

  
Feemor loved visiting the crèche. He and Master Celinar had always made a point to visit the youngling at least once a month when they were not off planet on assignment. Qui-Gon was not as regular a visitor, so when Feemor had mentioned it, one night over dinner, he had been surprised when Qui-Gon had not only agreed but had asked to accompany him.  
  
As they walked down the corridor that led to the crèche, Feemor was suddenly very glad his new master had come along. With Qui-Gon at his side, the ache in his chest was not quite so bad, and the memories of previous visits with Celinar did not feel quite as overwhelming.  
  
The crèche was full of warmth and light, and Feemor could feel the smile spreading across his face as he stepped over the threshold. Laughter filled the air, and a little Twi’lek girl ran up to him, a wide grin on her tiny pink face.  
  
“Feem’r!”  
  
Laughing, Feemor scooped the girl up into his arms. “Hello, Syna. How are you today?”  
  
Whatever her response was going to be, it was cut off as a near ear-piercing shriek filled the room.  
  
“QUI!”  
  
Quick as a flash, a dark headed blur detached itself from a clump of younglings, darting towards Qui-Gon, who had entered a few paces behind Feemor, and all but launched itself into the knight’s arm. Stumbling back a step, Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around the blur, who Feemor could now see was actually a boy, probably around four or five, with a mop of thick black hair haloing around his head.  
  
A tug on his braid made Feemor turn his attention back to the child in his arms. “Feem’r!”  
  
“Ah, sorry Little One, I’m listening.”  
  
As the girl continued to babble on about her newest discovery – how to lift food with the Force and eat it from the air – Feemor watched Qui-Gon out of the corner of his eye, and found he could not shake the distinct feeling that the boy in his master’s arms was glaring at him.

* * *

  
The next time he visited the crèche, Feemor went alone. Knights Micah and Tahl had stormed his and Qui-Gon’s quarters, and Feemor had swiftly evacuated the premises with a cheeky grin and a “Play safe, Master”, slipping out the door before the pillow Qui-Gon had thrown hit its target.  
  
Master Racco’nda greeted him as he entered the crèche, bustling up to Feemor with a smile. The Kadas’sa’Nikto master directed him towards the crèche’s small library, and soon Feemor found himself surrounded by younglings, as he regaled them with the story of The Littlest Lothcat. As he reached the end, a chorus of voices rang out.  
  
“Another!”  
  
“Read us another!”  
  
“Pleaseeeee??”  
  
Laughing, Feemor held up his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright. I’ll read another. Who picked this one?”  
  
A Wookie boy raised his hand.  
  
“Alright, then…” Feemor scanned the little group, “You, and…you. You two go pick the next one together.”  
  
As the appointed younglings scrambled to their feet, Feemor leaned back in his chair, seizing the opportunity to rest his voice. A hand tapped his shoulder, and he looked up to see Racco’nda, holding out a cup of tea. He took the offering eagerly.  
  
“Bless you.” He breathed, voice muffled by the clay mug as he took a long sip. The warm liquid felt wonderful on his throat.  
  
The old master laughed. “You are welcome, Padawan Feemor. You looked as if you might need it. The young ones have been looking forwards to story time, it seems.”  
  
Feemor grinned into his cup, “Well, I did learn from the best.”  
  
They snorted, waving a clawed hand. “Flatterer.”  
  
Laughing, Feemor turned back to his tea, glancing around the room as he waited for a new story to be thrust into his hands. His eyes fell on a dark haired boy on the opposite side of the room. He was alone, playing with a stuffed nerf.  
  
‘That’s the boy from last time,’ Feemor frowned slightly, ‘the one who knows Qui-Gon.’  
  
As if feeling that he was being watched, the boy looked up, glancing around, a suspicious look in his surprisingly piercing blue eyes. When he noticed Feemor looking at him, there was a flash of recognition in those eyes, before a dark scowl settled across the boy’s face. He stuck his tongue out with a viciousness that surprised Feemor, before looking firmly away, his focus pointedly on the stuffed toy in his hands.  
  
A tug on the hem of his tunic made Feemor look away from the scowling child. Syna was staring up at him, arms outstretch, her eyes wide and pleading. With a dramatic sigh, Feemor put down his tea.  
  
“Alright, you little monster. Come here.”  
  
She giggled, allowing him to pull her into his lap.  
  
“Are you going to help me read this story?”  
  
She nodded. “Yep!”  
  
Feemor smiled, “Alright then.”  
  
Satisfied with her victory, Syna snuggled back against Feemor’s chest, entertaining herself by playing with his padawan braid.  
  
“Hey, Syna?”  
  
“Mmhm?”  
  
Feemor nodded towards the dark-haired boy. “Can you tell me who he is?”  
  
Syna looked over and then nodded, “That’s Xan. He’s five. Like me!” She held up her hand, fingers splayed wide in front of his face.  
  
Feemor chuckled. “Very nice.”  
  
Nodding, Syna dropped her hand. She glanced back over at the boy, Xan. “He doesn’t talk much.” She said, lowering her voice to something almost like a whisper, “I don’t think he likes me very much. But he likes Qui.”  
  
“Qui?” Feemor arched an eyebrow. The girl nodded.  
  
“The reallyyyyy tall master. He was with you last time. He comes in sometimes, and talks to Xan.” She frowned. “Sometimes, he looks sad after Qui leaves. I tried to give him Ruma once,” she shook the doll she had clutched in her other hand, “But he just yelled at me.”  
  
“I see.” Syna was frowning sadly down at her doll now, so Feemor picked it up, inspecting it, and then looked into its button eyes.  
  
“I am very sorry if Xan hurt your feelings Ruma.” He said solemnly. Syna giggled, taking the doll back and holding it to her ear.  
  
“He says thank you. He likes you better than Xan. You tell better stories.”  
  
Feemor laughed, “Why thank you Ruma. And speaking of stories…”  
  
“We picked one!”  
  
With one more glance across the room at Xan, Feemor turned his attention back to the younglings around him, and the story begin waved in front of his face.

* * *

  
He brought it up a few nights later, during evening meal.  
  
“Who’s Xan?”  
  
Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad, blinking in surprise. “Xan?” The confusion on his face cleared. “Oh, you mean Xanatos. The youngling in the crèche.”  
  
Feemor nodded.  
  
“He’s from Telos IV. I found him a few years back, and brought him to the temple.” Qui-Gon explained, turning his gaze back to the datapad.  
  
“He’s very fond of you,” Feemor noted.  
  
“Hm? Yes, I suppose he is. I visit him from time to time, so it would make sense. He’s a bright boy.”  
  
Feemor resisted the urge to sigh at the older man’s rather vague response. “Whatever you say, Master.”

* * *

  
Between training and off-planet missions, it was a few months before Feemor was able to find the time to visit the crèche again.  
  
It was relatively quiet when he walked in, most of the younger children were off the taking naps. Feemor wandered from room to room, talking softly with some of the older children for a while, before moving on.  
  
As he passed the library, the soft sound of crying caught his attention. Frowning, Feemor stopped, peering in through the doorway.  
  
“Hello? Is someone in here?”  
  
A sniff. “No. Go away.”  
  
Feemor arched a brow. Of course. Carefully, he picked his way through the dim room. He found the source of the crying a few shelves in.  
  
Xanatos was sitting with his back to a shelf, his knees pulled up to his chest, crying softly. Stepping closers, Feemor knelt down, his heart going out to the boy. “Xanatos?”  
  
The youngling’s head snapped up at the sound of his name, and he glared at Feemor. “Go away!”  
  
Ignoring the command, Feemor moved a little closer and then stopped, not wanting to make Xanatos feel trapped. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Go away!” Xanatos snapped again, looking down and wrapping his arms more tightly around his legs. “I don’t want to talk to you!”  
  
Feemor frowned. “Why not?” He sat down, crossing his legs into something like a meditation pose.  
  
Xanatos sniffed, looking up again and wiping his nose on his sleeve. His eyes were red and tear stained, and Feemor wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him close.  
  
“I don’t like you.”  
  
“That seems rather unfair. I barely know you. Do you even know my name?”  
  
“….No.”  
  
“Well, it’s Feemor.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Oh? And why is that?”  
  
Xanatos glared again, and the sniffed, staring down at the ground for a long moment. When he spoke, his words were quiet, shaky and almost scared.  
  
“Because Qui likes you better ‘n me.”  
  
Feemor blinked, eyes widening with realization. “Xan-“  
  
Xanatos’ head snapped up, anger flashing in his eyes. “And he’s ALWAYS gonna like you more! It’s not FAIR!”  
  
Feemor’s heart cracked at the blatant pain in the little boy’s voice. He moved closer, reaching out and pulling Xanatos into a loose hug. The child tensed up, but did not pull away, and Feemor gently ran a hand through his hair, watching his reactions.  
  
“Xanatos, why would you think that?” he asked softly. In his arms, Xanatos sniffed.  
  
“He smiles at you when you both visit. He LIKES you.” To Feemor’s surprise, Xanatos snuggled further into the embrace, his voice slightly muffled when he spoke again. “I don’t think he likes me.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t he like you?” Feemor asked, keeping his voice soft and soothing, trying to not let on that he was mentally preparing to flay his wayward master for making the child in his arms cry.  
  
Sniffling, and then, “He doesn’t hug me anymore. Or smile that much. Not really. Only funny, fake smiles.” Xanatos looked up, meeting Feemor’s eyes with a damp gaze. “Did I do somethin’ wrong? Is that why he likes you but not me?”  
  
“No, no.” Feemor shook his head, stroking Xanatos’ hair again. Using the corner of his robes, he carefully wiped the tears and snot from the boy’s face. “No, Xanatos, you did nothing wrong. Qui-Gon is just…” he sighed, “May I tell you a story?”  
  
For a moment, suspicion flashed in Xanatos’ eyes again, but he nodded. Leaning back against the shelf, Feemor shifted until he was comfortable, settling the boy in his lap.  
  
“I met Qui-Gon Jinn when I was about your age. We were both here, in the crèche, around the same time. Did you know that?” Xanatos shook his head, and Feemor continued. “Well, we were. I had lost a book, and was very upset. Qui-Gon, he was older than you see, he helped me find it. After that, he was always looking out for me.” Feemor smiled at the memory.  
  
“I was always tagging along after him and Knight Tahl. And then Knight Micah. You’ll meet them soon enough little one, they’re Master Qui-Gon’s closest friends, and he loves them very much.”  
  
Xanatos had settled back against Feemor’s chest by this point, listening to the padawan’s words with an open and keenly interested expression.  
  
“When I was eleven, Master Junla Celinar asked me to be her padawan, and I accepted.” Xanatos’ eyes went wide with surprise, and he twisted to look up at Feemor.  
  
“Not Qui?”  
  
Feemor shook his head. “No, he was a still a padawan himself, with Master Dooku. Have you ever met him?”  
  
Xanatos shook his head as well, and Feemor chuckled. “You’re lucky then, Little One. He is….quite the man.”  
  
“Is he scary?”  
  
Feemor laughed again, “A little, perhaps.”  
  
Xanatos nodded, expression serious and eyes wide. He cocked his head, thinking for a few moments.  
  
“So…if you weren’t Qui’s padawan, why are you now?”  
  
Feemor sighed, closing his eyes and remembering the sudden blaster fire, and flare of panic. “My master died, almost two years ago now.” He said softly.  
There was a long silence, and then he felt Xanatos shift, and small arms came up to wrap around his neck.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
Feemor was surprised by the sudden tears in his eyes. Gently, he hugged back. “Thank you.”  
  
Blinking them away, he exhaled slowly, allowing his grief to flow into the Force. “After that, Qui-Gon found me. He was just knighted a few years ago, but he offer to finish my training. I agreed.”  
  
Xanatos stared up at him, and Feemor smiled down at the child. “Do you know what I have learned about Qui-Gon?”  
  
Xanatos shook his head.  
  
Feemor lowered his voice. “This is a secret, so you have to promise not to tell, okay?”  
  
Eyes widening, Xanatos nodded. “I promise.”  
  
“Okay,” Looking around, Feemor whispered, “He’s a bit of an idiot sometimes.”  
  
Xanatos’ eyes grew even wider, and he clapped his hands over his mouth to suppress a giggle.  
  
Feemor grinned. “I know, right? But it’s true. Sometimes, he’s not very good at noticing if people are upset, and sometimes he forgets that not everyone is fluent in Qui-Gon Jinn speak.”  
  
Xanatos did giggle this time. “Really?”  
  
“Really. So, him not smiling as much, or forgetting to hug doesn’t mean that you’ve upset him, or that he doesn’t like you, just that he’s thinking about something else, or he forgot that younglings require lots of hugs to become big strong Jedi.” To illustrate his point, Feemor hugged Xanatos tightly, until the boy squealed with laughter.  
  
“You’re squishing me!”  
  
Loosening his hold, Feemor met Xanatos’ eyes. “Are you going to be okay, Little Jedi?”  
  
Xanatos nodded, smiling shyly up at Feemor. “Yeah.”  
  
Feemor grinned. “Good. Want to go play?”  
  
The boy chewed on his lip, and nodded. “Can we paint?”  
  
Feemor laughed, “I’m sure we could paint, if you want to.”  
  
Xanatos smiled brightly. “I do!”  
  
“Alright then.” Xanatos climbed off his lap, and then Feemor rose to his feet. The boy was smiling, and radiating happiness. Much to the padawan’s relief, none of the confusion and hurt that had surrounded the child when Feemor had first entered the library remained.  
  
Feemor offered his hand, and Xanatos took it, wrapping his little fingers around three of Feemor’s like he was worried the padawan might run away.  
  
As they left the library, Xanatos look up at Feemor. “Hey, Feem’?”  
  
Grinning at the shortening of his name, Feemor looked down. “Yeah?”  
  
Xanatos’ face was solemn as he started up. “Promise you’ll take care of Qui?”  
  
Feemor blinked, confused. “Of course. Why do you ask?”  
  
The look Xanatos gave him said something along the lines of, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’  
  
“Because I get him next, so you gotta look after him for me.” The Force rang with the truth of his words, and Feemor had to physically restrain himself from gaping at the boy at his side, who was still gazing expectantly up at him.  
  
“Kay?”  
  
Feemor blinked, and then smiled. “Alright.”  
  
“Pinky promise!” A chubby pinky finger was waved at him, and Feemor’s smiled widened into a grin. Kneeling down, he wrapped his pinky around Xanatos’.  
  
“Pinky promise.”

* * *

  
“We need to talk.”  
  
Qui-Gon looked up, frowning as Feemor’s voice cut through his meditation. The senior padawan had barely made it through the door before he had started talking, and he stood before Qui-Gon, arms crossed over his chest and a frown creasing his face.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Qui-Gon asked, his confusion growing as he reached out to the link between them, only to run up against the thick shields Feemor had raised. “Padawan?”  
  
“We need to talk about Xanatos.”  
  
“Xanatos? What about him?” Rising from his meditation mat, Qui-Gon moved to sit down on the couch that occupied the center of the main room. He had hoped Feemor would take this opportunity and sit as well, but the young man did not, moving instead to stand across from him. He was still frowning, agile fingers twitching in random patterns against his forearms, a sign Qui-Gon had come to learn spoke of deep agitation.  
  
“Feemor, what’s going on? Is Xanatos alright? Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Feemor said curtly, “And Xan is too. Now.”  
  
The look he gave Qui-Gon was pointed and accusing, and Qui-Gon felt the briefest flare of irritation, before he caught it up and carefully released it into the Force.  
  
“Are you going to tell me more, padawan, or just keep glaring at me?”  
  
“Oh, I think I might glare at you a little longer. You made him cry.”  
  
The words were flat, but sharp as a blade. Qui-Gon stared up at the younger man, still feeling far too confused for his liking.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You made Xanatos cry,” Feemor’s frown deepened into a scowl, “I found him crying in the crèche library, Qui-Gon!”  
  
“What? But he was fine when I left the crèche yesterday.” Qui-Gon protested. If anything, that only made Feemor’s scowl worse.  
  
“So you visited him yesterday? Did you hug him? Smile at all?”  
  
Qui-Gon blinked. “I…I mean, I’m sure I smiled? But what does that have to do with-“  
  
“It has to do with everything!” Feemor snapped. “Gods, Qui-Gon, he thinks, thought, you don’t like him! He thinks he has upset you somehow!”  
  
“That’s absurd.”  
  
“I don’t think it is!” The blond padawan was all but yelling now, and Qui-Gon stared, shocked by the outburst.  
  
Blowing out a long breath, Feemor paused, closing his eyes and taking a moment to collect himself as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers sliding down his braid distractedly. Qui-Gon watched his padawan cautiously, still feeling more than a little confused.  
  
With a huff, Feemor sat down on the couch next to Qui-gon, tucking one foot under his other knee. When he spoke again, the blatant anger had left his voice, replaced with frustration.  
  
“Qui-Gon, Master, I speak with the utmost respect for you when I say that for all your many skills, you can be about as observant as a gundark at times. You know he’s meant to be your next padawan, right?”  
  
Qui-Gon nodded. He had felt a connection to the dark haired boy since he had first brought him to the temple on Coruscant, could still feel the barely-there fledgling training bond, heavily shielded as it was; a point of faint heat next to the bond he shared with Feemor.  
  
If anything, Feemor’s expression grew more frustrated, “Well, he knows it too. I went to visit the crèche today, and I found him crying. I’ve noticed him for a while now, he would always glare at me when I visited, especially if you were there too.”  
  
Qui-Gon’s brow furrowed. “I never noticed.”  
  
Feemor arched a brow, biting his lip to hold back the sarcastic remark that rose unbidden to his lips at that. “Well, he did. I finally know why; he was jealous.”  
  
“Jealous?”  
  
“Yes. I suppose his concerns had already taken root. He seemed to think that, because you visibly liked me, and since you do not act the same around him as you do me, you must not like him.”  
  
The look that had settled on Qui-Gon’s face was dangerously close to brooding, and absently, Feemor wondered if he had the energy to deal with crying children _and_ a brooding Qui-Gon Jinn all in one day.  
  
“I had not realized,” Qui-Gon murmured, running a hand distractedly over his beard. “He never seemed any different.”  
  
Feemor did not bother to hold back his scoff at that, and refused to feel sorry for it, even as he received a reproachful look. “Qui-Gon, I am positive there have been signs. You just did not see them.”  
  
There was a flash of hurt in Qui-Gon’s eyes at that, and Feemor sent a wave of apology across their bond; he had not meant for his words to be so harsh, even if they were true. Despite his initial anger at his master, Feemor did not want cause him pain. However, that did not stop him from his mission. He would not see his brother padawan hurt again, of that he was determined.  
  
“Master, he is only a child. Children require active attention and reassurance,” Feemor could see the flicker of surprise in Qui-Gon’s eyes, and it made him sad. He had only met his second grandmaster a few times, but he had heard stories, both in the crèche and during his time as Master Celinar’s padawan, that the man was far from the most caring of masters. There was no doubt that Dooku was a great and widely respected Jedi, but after only one meeting, even Feemor could see that he and Qui-Gon were poorly matched. Qui-Gon Jinn was an incredibly caring man, and deeply sensitive to the ebb and flow of the Living Force, but somewhere along the line, after he had walked out of the crèche when Feemor was still an initiate, Qui-Gon had closed himself off and stopped truly _seeing_ the people around him.  
  
“It just…” Feemor scowled down at the fabric of the couch, “It frustrates me, Qui-Gon. I know you care, and I know you can be oblivious at times,” he ignored the older man’s spluttered protests, “But it’s damned obvious that he looks up to you, and you’re hurting him!”  
  
“Feemor, I can’t give Xanatos special treatment, just because-“ Qui-Gon started, but Feemor cut him off.  
  
“You actively visit him! You’ve already shown him special treatment! He’s a child, Qui-Gon, he doesn’t know your reasoning for your actions; all he knows is what he sees, and what the Force is telling him. He doesn’t understand this on and off affection, and now he thinks he’s done something wrong!”  
  
The silence that followed his words rang in the room. Qui-Gon was staring at him, his gaze unreadable. As Feemor waited for the silence to break, he wondered if perhaps he had gone too far this time. Childhood friends they may be, but their relationship was still that of a master and a padawan; Feemor was not Qui-Gon’s equal, not yet.  
  
“Master, I’m-“  
  
“You’re right.”  
  
Feemor looked up from where he had been staring at his hands. “I…what?”  
  
Qui-Gon was frowning, but there was no anger in his eyes, just honest distress. “You’re right. You have no reason to lie to me about this, Feemor, and you are right. I have not treated Xanatos fairly, and if he is hurting it is due to my own mistakes.” He met Feemor’s eyes, and the distress was clear on his face as well. “What should I do?”  
  
Feemor swallowed, feelingly suddenly very out of his depth. “You need to talk to him, Qui-Gon. Children are not stupid. Have him tell you what is upsetting him, and then reassure him. If you intend to take him on as a padawan after me, tell him. Don’t just leave him floundering in the dark. Make sure he knows you care, and that you can care about other people while still caring about him.”  
  
Qui-Gon nodded slowly. “I…yes, you are right.” He smiled, lopsided, and still a little sad. “Thank you, Padawan.”  
  
Feemor smiled back, leaning in to allow Qui-Gon to wrap his arms around him in.  
  
“Don’t worry, Master. Between me and Xan, we’ll get you trained up properly for whoever comes next.”  
  
Qui-Gon swatted at Feemor’s shoulder, his smile growing in strength. “Sarcastic brat. You’re assuming I survived the combined influence of the two of you.”  
  
Feemor arched a brow, all teasing now. “Ah, but I have great faith that Micah and Tahl will be the causes of your demise. Now, why are you still here? I believe you have a rather important meeting in the crèche. Unless you need me to guide you, Old Man?”  
  
Invisible hands tugged on Feemor’s braid as Qui-Gon rose, laughing, from the couch. “I bow before your wisdom, Padawan. I’m going.”  
  
He was almost out the door when Feemor’s shout reached his ears.  
  
“Just make sure not to put your foot in your mouth! And hug him, for Force’s sake!”

* * *

  
“Feemor!”  
  
Two excited voices calling his name reached Feemor’s ears as he wandered into the crèche one afternoon, a few months later. Within moments, there were two small beings sitting on his feet and firmly attached to his legs. Looking down, Feemor raised an eyebrow at the children, fighting a smile.  
  
“Well hello there. I didn’t realize the crèche housed Kowakian monkey-lizards.”  
  
“We’re not monkey-lizards!” Xanatos laughed.  
  
“Really now?” Feemor asked, feigning surprise, “I had no idea. You certainly look like one.”  
  
On his right ankle, Syna giggled. Both children were covered from head to toe in a wild array of brightly coloured paints, some of which were transferring onto Feemor’s tan leggings.  
  
“What in the Force happened to you two?” Feemor asked, once he had maneuvered himself to a chair, and removed the younglings, in clean clothes (by undisputed order of the crèche master) and sitting on either side of him, from his feet.  
  
“We had a paint fight!” Syna chirped, her grin bright as a sun. Blue and green paint still speckled her lekku.  
  
“A paint fight?”  
  
“Yeah,” Xanatos nodded. There was red paint streaked throughout his messy black locks.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because Xan said you were _his_ person!” Syna started, grabbing on to Feemor’s elbow.  
  
“He is!” Xanatos interrupted, “‘Cause he’s Qui’s person, and Qui’s my person, so Feemor’s my person too. Just not as good as Qui.”  
  
Feemor had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the certainty in the boy’s voice. Syna stuck her tongue out. “Nu, uh. He’s mine too, so we gotta share!”  
  
She looked up at Feemor, eyes wide and pleading. “That’s why I threw paint at him. Cause you’re _my_ person.” She looked back at Xan, “And then he threw paint at me, but then he remembered that Qui-“  
  
“Qui told me you can share people!” Xan piped up, his smile brightening. “So now we’re sharing you!” He reached out, patting Feemor’s hand as if to say, ‘You don’t have to worry about it anymore.’  
  
Feemor’s shoulders were shaking with restrained laughter as he looked back and forth between the two children.  
  
“I see. I’m glad you two sorted that out. After all, I’m sure I’m big enough to share. Though I do hope your paint war had no casualties?”  
  
The younglings exchanged glances.  
  
“Welll…”  
  
“We may have gotten yellow paint on the floor…”  
  
“And the walls…”  
  
“And Master Juran’s head…”  
  
Feemor’s delighted laughter rang out, filling the crèche, despite his best efforts.

* * *

  
**[59 BBY]**  
  
It was still an odd sensation, Feemor mused, to not feel a braid brushing against his cheek or collarbone as he walked. He kept reaching for it, to slide his fingers down the braid or roll a bead between thumb and forefinger, as had become an unconscious habit, only to meet empty air. It was odd, but at the same time, Feemor found that despite his best attempts, it had taken a very long time for him to stop grinning foolishly every time he noticed the absence and all that it stood for.  
  
After his ceremony, Feemor had given his padawan braid to Qui-Gon. The older man had protested at first, claiming that he had little to do with Feemor’s success, but Feemor had insisted, and finally Qui-Gon had given in, accepting the long braid with careful hands. For a moment, Feemor could have sworn he had seen tears in his old master and friend’s eyes.  
  
Now, almost a full year later, Feemor was still not quite used to the braid’s absence, though most other aspects of his changed life had become commonplace. There were still times when he would forget that he was alone on a mission, would turn with a half-formed question on his lips only to stop, but he was steadily building up a solid reputation for himself, growing comfortable in his autonomy.  
  
Humming softly, Feemor continued down the long familiar halls of the Temple, soaking up the warm, midday sunlight that filtered through the large windows overlooking the meditation gardens and the feel the Temple and all the Jedi it housed, a warm, steadying thrum in the Force that sang of home. He had not realized how much he come to miss the feel of being surrounded by other Jedi. His last mission had been long, longer than he was used to, negotiating a long-fought for treaty between warring political factions on Thyferra.  
  
The path to the crèche was still deeply ingrained in his memory, and Feemor lost track of time as he walked, allowing his thoughts to wander as they would. It felt as if it had been an age since he had last had the chance to visit the younglings. Unbidden, a pink, brightly smiling face flashed in his mind. Syna would ten now, almost eleven? He wondered if she was still an initiate, or if some knight or master had finally noticed the shining joy and potential that Feemor had always seen in the girl, and asked her to be their padawan. That thought sent an unexpected pain through his chest, and Feemor drew to a slow stop before the last bend in the hall that would take him to the crèche, a frown on his lips.  
  
Absently, he rubbed two fingers over his chest, the place right under his left collar bone, and wondered where that had come from. Surely he could not begrudge the girl the chance she been waiting for? But no, no that was not it. Still frowning, Feemor toyed with the idea of turning around and returning to his rooms to meditate. The thought had barely crossed his mind before he felt the Force protest around him, urging him on down the hallway. The young man sighed, giving in to the incorporeal prodding, straightening his shoulders before continuing the short walk that remained, grumbling under his breath as he did so about the Force being just as damned pushy as Master Yoda, and was that where the troll had gotten it from, or vice versa?  
  
He did not see Syna at first, upon entering the crèche. He must have looked a little lost, hovering in the doorway, because when Master Racco’nda spotted him, they came bustling over, smiling.  
  
“Knight Strahl. It has been a long time.”  
  
Feemor smiled, bowing to the older master. “That it has, Master Racco’nda. It is good to see you again.”  
  
They laughed softly. “And you. But let me guess, you are looking for Syna, aren’t you?”  
  
“I,” Feemor blinked, “I mean, not necessarily. But, if you know-“  
  
“Where she is?” Racco’nda waved away the rest of Feemor’s words, a mischievous light in their eyes. “Of course, of course. She is over there.” They pointed to the far side of the room, and then swatted at Feemor’s shoulder with one clawed hand. “Go on, go on.”  
  
Feemor spotted Syna amongst a group of other older initiates, his eyes landing on pink lekku, bobbing around as the girl spoke, gesticulating wildly. The sight brought a wide smile to Feemor’s lips, and he made his way over to the little group, actively restraining himself to a measured walk.  
  
Syna sensed him before he had even got all the way across the room, her head snapping around as deep green eyes widened.  
  
“Feemor!”  
  
Suddenly, Feemor had his arms full of happy Twi’lek child, arms wrapped tight around his neck as she hugged him like she meant to squeeze all the air from his lungs. Laughing, Feemor shifted until Syna was settled more comfortably in his arms.  
  
“You’ve grown since I last saw you, Little One,” he teased, as Syna wrapped her legs around his waist with an iron grip. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do this much longer.”  
  
The look he received at that said in no uncertain terms that Feemor was being utterly ridiculous and if this was difficult then clearly he was not trying hard enough. Somehow, it was made all the more impressive on the face of a ten-year-old.  
  
Clearly deciding to ignore Feemor’s blatant moment of ignorance, Syna jabbed his shoulder with one finger, demanding his complete attention.  
  
“You’ve been gone for ages!”  
  
“I know, and I am very sorry about that.”  
  
“You should be! Did you know Xan’s a padawan now? Master Jinn took him on months ago!”  
  
“So I have heard. I’m very happy for them both.” Winking, Feemor lowered his voice, “Hopefully, Xanatos will be able to train Master Jinn properly.”  
  
Syna laughed, hugging Feemor again, and then allowed him to put her down, his arms beginning to protest bearing her weight. She was still grinning widely, talking at light-speed about everything that Feemor had missed in his time away from the Temple and the crèche. Watching her, Feemor felt a warm joy spreading through him, and something nudging at the back of his mind. Curious, he reached out into the Force, following the nudge.  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh._  
  
Feemor had not been Tianj Celinar’s first padawan. She had trained three others before him, and whenever she had spoken of them, the Bith woman’s voice has softened with warmth, pride, and love for her previous charges. Once, in the fifth year of his apprenticeship, Feemor had asked Celinar why she kept training padawan after reaching the rank of Master. The young man could still remember the warm in his master’s laugh and black eyes, and her words still stayed with him.  
  
_“Because there is nothing better in this universe than watching a young life grow and flourish. Someday, padawan mine, you will meet a child, and they will show you the same light and warmth when you look upon them that you show me, when I look at you. And then you will understand.”_  
  
‘I think I finally understand, Master.’  
  
“Syna?” Feemor’s voice cut through the girl’s monologue, and she looked up at him, surprise morphing to concern.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Kneeling down so that they were eye to eye, Feemor smiled. It felt a little shaky. Funny, he had never thought he would be nervous doing this.  
  
“Syna Tarkona, would you do me the honour of becoming my padawan?”  
  
Syna’s eyes widened to an almost comical size. There was a heartbeat of absolute silence, and then the girl was launching herself a Feemor with an ecstatic shriek, clinging like a baby Ewok.  
  
“Is that a yes?” Feemor asking, a strange euphoria sweeping over him. His face nearly hurt, he was smiling so much, and all around him he could hear the Force singing out its approval.  
  
Syna pressed her face against his shoulder, nodding rapidly, and Feemor’s grin grew even wider as he hugged his new padawan back, just as tightly.


End file.
